Random Thoughts
by Sparkle731
Summary: Random thoughts from Starsky’s Point of View after the attack in the parking garage and during his recovery. Chapter 7 and 8 are posted. Story is now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**RANDOM THOUGHTS**

**Random thoughts from Starsky's Point of View after the attack in the parking garage and during his recovery. **

**A/N: I hope to be able to post this story on a regular basis. Still not on line and have to depend on other options to access the web. Hopefully, that situation will be resolved around the first of the month. I hope you enjoy the story.**

**CHAPTER 1**

Pain. Terrible, mind numbing pain that made me scream in my head but nobody could hear me. Pain that seemed to wrap my entire body in a vice and twist my guts into knots. Pain that cut through me like a thousand knifes slicing at my skin. I couldn't open my eyes. I tried but it felt like my eyelids were glued shut. I struggled to keep my fear under control. This was no time to panic. At least not until I knew what I was dealing with. So, I retreated back into the safety of the darkness where the pain couldn't reach me at least for a little while. That is my first conscious memory after the shooting that day in the police garage.

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That day in mid-May started out just like any other day. The sun was shining and the air was clear. A gentle breeze from the northeast brought with it the smell of the ocean tides. I don't remember the actual shooting, the doctors tell me that I probably never will. They say that's the mind's way of protecting a person from a traumatic life altering event. I suppose you could call getting shot five times in the torso a life altering event.

What I do remember is playing a game of trivia ping pong with Hutch and winning. The prize was a three course meal of the winner's choice. As we left the building to head out on patrol, I was kidding Hutch good naturedly about my win. We were standing by my car, with me standing at the driver's door fumbling with my keys, when all hell broke loose.

All I remember clearly is hearing Hutch screaming my name. Just the tone of his voice was enough to warn me of impending danger. My left hand darted underneath my favorite brown leather jacket, reaching for my gun, even as I started to spin around to face whatever threat was coming at us. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my right side, curled up on the ground and trying desperately to draw air into my lungs which felt like they were slowly filling up with sludge. 'H_utch? Oh, God! Where was Hutch? Did he get hit?' _Those were the first thoughts that raced through my mind as I lay there on the cold, hard pavement. There was no time to feel any pain. The darkness reached out and grabbed me even as Hutch ran around the front of the Torino. The last thing I can remember thinking clearly was _'Thank God, Hutch is okay.' _

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Besides the terrible pain that seemed determined to rip me apart, the other thing I can remember is the sound of the activity in the room around me. I could hear the hiss, whine and beeps of the various bits of machinery that must have been surrounding my bed. I could also hear the soft sound of rubber soled shoes on the tile floor as the medical staff tended to my various needs. In the background, I could hear the muted sound of voices but there was only one voice I cared about, only one voice I wanted to hear. Hutch.

I can remember hearing his voice whispering in my ear, begging me not to die. I guess that's the first time I really understood how seriously I was injured. The fear I could hear in Hutch's voice was enough to convince me that my condition was indeed critical. But it was also the raw fear I could hear in his voice that made me start fighting harder to open my eyes just to let him know that I was okay. That golden voice became my lifeline, the one thing I could cling too when everything else was so foggy and uncertain.

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The things I know about those first two weeks in the hospital are memories that have come from other people, they are not my own. I know that I'm damn lucky to be here. I almost died. Hell, I did die. Three times according to my doctors. The first time was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital after the shooting when I almost bled out before they could get me to the emergency room where a specially assembled team had already been alerted and was waiting for my arrival.

Hutch told me that he was in Captain Dobey's car, with the Captain driving, following the ambulance when it started to slow down and turned off the lights and the siren. Hutch said his heart literally leapt into his throat because he knew that they wouldn't have done that unless they had lost me. Then a split second later, his sheer terror turned to overwhelming relief when the ambulance suddenly accelerated again and the lights and siren came back on. Then he knew they had managed to revive me.

The second time was during the eight hour emergency surgery where the doctors struggled to put all the shattered pieces of my chest back into one piece and to repair the massive damage to my internal organs. My heart faltered several times and actually quit twice. The doctors had to replace almost my entire blood supply and they removed my spleen, part of my liver, a portion of my bowel, a section of my large intestine, my gall bladder, and a small part of my stomach. In addition, I had five broken ribs, three on the right side and two on the left that had actually been shattered by the impact of one of the bullets. I also had a shattered left shoulder blade, a broken collar bone, and severe nerve and muscle damage to both my chest and my left shoulder. Another concern was a bullet that had come dangerously close to my spine causing swelling of the spinal cord which carried with it the danger of permanent paralysis. All in all, I was a mess and the doctors held out little hope of my even surviving the surgery. They were all shocked when I did but they still told everybody that they needed to be prepared for the inevitable. It was just a matter of time before my heart gave out again, this time for good. They predicted that I would die sometime within the next twenty-four hours. Hutch told me later that in spite of what the doctors said, there was a part of him that refused to accept the fact that he could lose me. As long as I was alive, he had some hope to hold on to.

They moved me into the intensive care unit and all my friends and colleagues began a death watch, with Hutch planted in a chair right outside the window that overlooked my private room. My friend, Huggy Bear, and Captain Dobey both told me that Hutch refused to leave his vantage point. He just sat there staring through the window at me lying in that bed and refused to talk to anyone. Captain Dobey added that he was afraid of losing Hutch too if I died. We've always been so close, more like two halves of the same soul in separate bodies. If they lost me, nobody expected Hutch to last very long. Hell, if the situation had been reversed, I would have felt the same way Hutch did, as if I were losing a major part of myself that could never be replaced.

I guess it's a good thing Hutch was there because he managed to stop a second attempt on my life. That sent Blondie on a vendetta to find the person responsible for trying to have me killed. It gave him a direction to focus his anger and his pain in, something tangible to do. That meant he wasn't there in the hospital when my heart stopped again just like the doctor's predicted. But somehow, as if he sensed that my life hung in the balance, he chose that exact moment to call Captain Dobey to check on me.

When the Captain told him that he had better get back to the hospital right away, Hutch told me that he broke every speed limit in the city to get back to my side. Huggy Bear is the one who told me that the doctors had already shocked me three times with no response and were just about ready to give up and pronounce me dead when two things happened simultaneously, the doctor decided to give it one more try and Hutch came barreling through the doors that led to the ICU. Almost as if I had just been waiting for Hutch to get there, my heart started beating again. I was clinically dead for almost four minutes, any longer and the doctor said I would have suffered irreversible brain damage from a lack of oxygen.

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Being told that for all intents and purposes, you actually died three times does something to a man. I didn't experience any of those near death experiences you hear tell about, I didn't seen any bright light or hear my Pop or my beloved Terri calling for me. I have no memory of dying at all. Maybe that's for the best, just knowing that I did die is enough to give me a cold chill. But, still, dying and coming back to life changes a man. I guess you could say that I'm more cautious now and that some of the things that used to mean a lot to me don't mean that much to me anymore. These days I live my life to the fullest and enjoy myself more. I realize now that I am not invincible. I am acutely aware of my own mortality. I want to spend the time I have left with the people I love and I want to let them know how I really feel about them before it's too late. When the time comes to face my God, I want to do it with a clear conscience and a redeemed soul.

Yes, I do believe in God. Or at least in a higher power. I may not be a practicing Jew the way I should be. I haven't been in the Temple since my father died but in my own way, I do believe in the religious teachings I learned as a child. And after what I've been through, I have to believe in miracles.

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The doctors call me their 'miracle patient'. They gave up on me but I surprised them all and pulled through despite the tremendous odds against me. They don't know how I did it and neither do I. My Maw said that God decided I still a purpose to fulfill here on Earth. Hutch said it was an act of God, the answer to his own desperate prayers. Personally, I think I lived because of Hutch. I just couldn't leave him alone. I couldn't die because that would have been the same as killing Hutch too. Like Captain Dobey and Huggy, I believe that if I had died, Hutch would have found a way to join me in death. I know because that's what I would have done.

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Almost two weeks after the shooting, I finally managed to open my eyes for the first time. I don't know why that time it was different from all the other times I'd tried but it was. Maybe it was because I could hear the growing frustration and desperation in Hutch's voice. I'll never forget the look on his face when Hutch turned his head and realized that my eyes were open. His entire face just lit up with an overwhelming joy and he grabbed the nurse and began dancing her around the room. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, it was so unlike my normally reserved partner. It tickled me to see Hutch so happy. If it hadn't hurt so damn much, I would have laughed at such a sight. I was really groggy and disoriented, loaded to the gills with some heavy duty pain killers, but I think I managed a tiny twitch of my lips before I fell asleep.

In those first few days after I came out of the coma, I wished I could have just stayed unconscious. The pain was so overwhelming, even when they pumped me full of as many pain meds as they could without overdosing me, it didn't seem to help much. I was so weak I couldn't move. That's probably just as well since even a tiny involuntary jerk of my muscles was enough to make me scream out in pain. I didn't even have the strength to talk, all I could do was try to communicate my needs and my pain with my eyes. Luckily, that's one language that Hutch is proficient in.

He was there constantly, sitting at my side and talking to me even when I didn't seem to be paying attention. He'd gently rub my uninjured arm, or touch my face and that physical contact was the one thing I craved more than anything else. Hutch's touch had always been able to soothe me when I was in pain even when nothing else could. It was his voice and his touch that was keeping me from just giving up. He was holding me anchored to him and at the same time, anchored to the thread of life that I clung to so desperately.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

You can only spend so much time sleeping, even when you're doped up on morphine. But, I preferred being asleep to being awake. It hurt too much to be awake. I had a respirator tube stuffed down my throat which I hated with a passion. But, the doctor said is was necessary because I couldn't take a deep enough breathe on my own to fill my lungs properly. It just hurt too fucking much. The respirator wasn't much better. The tube in my throat made it sore and irritated, like I had a really bad case of strep throat. It also dried out my mouth, leaving my tongue feeling swollen and my throat parched. Naturally, I couldn't eat or have anything by mouth, including fluids. There was too much danger of my vomiting and ripping apart the doctor's needlepoint. So I was being fed and given fluids through a tube that ran into the back of my right hand, effectively rendering both of my arms immobile.

In the beginning, I didn't give a damn. I was having enough trouble just trying to make it from one minute to the next. I was filled with an irrational fear of being alone. Hutch knew that, and that's why he stayed with me despite the occasional objections from the medical staff. One look in those steely blue eyes, like chips of blue ice, combined with the determined look on Blondie's handsome face and most of them didn't raise a second objection. Plus, I'm sure that cannon Hutch carries helped persuade a lot of them not to push him too far.

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Most of the time, I felt like the doctors had patched me back together with bubble gum and duct tape, with a few strands of barbed wire thrown in for good measure. Everything had been rearranged and pieced together like a puzzle with a few pieces missing. Most of the time, I couldn't even tell anyone how badly I hurt because of that damn tube down my throat. All I could do was whimper like a baby and blink back the tears that gathered in my eyes. Down deep, I was terrified. Terrified of an uncertain future with nothing but pain in sight for weeks, maybe even months. I wondered if I would ever be whole again. Having Hutch at my side helped soothe some of that fear but not all of it. Hutch always seemed to know how I felt and exactly what I needed at any given moment, I guess it's a good thing we have our own little psychic connection going since I couldn't tell anyone what I needed in the beginning. It's really hard to have a positive attitude when you have a tube stuck down your throat so you can breathe, a tube stuck up your nose so they can feed you, IV's lines in both arms, drain tubes stuck here and there, a bag stuck to your belly so you can shit, and a tube jammed up your dick so you can piss. It seemed as if I had tubes coming out or going into every opening on my body and even in some places where there shouldn't have been any openings.

Sleep became a welcome escape, a way to ignore the pain, the fear and the uncertainty that had become my life. But sleep brought me little rest. The slightest movement would send waves of agony washing over me like a thousand knifes cutting through my body, slicing it to ribbons. Other times, my legs would cramp up into hard knots that brought tears to my eyes and an involuntary cry of pain to my lips.

Sometimes, my heart would beat too fast until it felt like it was going to explode in my chest making me hyperventilate. At other times, it would beat so slowly that I felt light headed and out of breath even with the respirator forcing air into my lungs. In the beginning, there seemed to be no middle ground. But, Hutch was always there when I opened my eyes, keeping me safe and watching my back.

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I was beginning to feel like a pin cushion. It seemed like there was always someone coming at me with a needle. My pain meds were injected through my IV line so that wasn't too bad, but those vampires from the lab seen to have a real thing for my blood. They take some from me every day. And it's never just one little stick, it's more like three or four. Believe me, after a while, that really starts to hurt. I feel like telling them to go easy, that I need that blood a lot more than they do and that I've only got so much that I can spare. But somehow, I don't think that would stop them. All the drugs scared me too. I knew I was on a high dosage of morphine and that worried me. I knew how addictive it was. I remembered far too well the hell Hutch went through when some goons involuntarily hooked him on smack. I didn't want to have to deal with withdrawal symptoms farther down the line. I had enough on my plate right now. **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

You have no fucking privacy in a hospital, especially in the ICU. Someone is always coming in to take your temperature, check your blood pressure and respirations, change your bandages, or poke at you and they do these things twenty-four hours a day so you never get enough rest.

Then you have the medical students that the doctors bring in to see the 'miracle patient' first hand. They stare at you like you're some kind of bug under a microscope in one of their classrooms. I just want to be left alone for ten minutes. Is that too much to ask?

I'm so sick and tired of everybody telling me what a miracle it is that I'm still alive. I don't feel like any fucking miracle. I feel like a middle aged cop that's been shot full of holes and lived to tell about it. A man whose body has suffered massive damage and isn't bouncing back the way it did when I was twenty. I feel tired and worn out, used up and thrown away. Most days it takes all the energy I have just to open my eyes.

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The nurses are competent and professional. There are a couple of really cute ones on this floor. If I was feeling better, I'd be getting their phone numbers. Blondie isn't even flirting with them, he's too concerned with watching over me. The nurses try to be as gentle as they can with me but it doesn't matter, they still hurt me without meaning to. A lot of the procedures they have to do are invasive and painful. That includes flushing my IV lines so they don't clog up, changing the drainage tubes in my chest, drawing blood, and changing my bandages.

Changing my bandages is a major undertaking that they have to do three times a day, once on each shift. It is so painful that they always have to medicate me first. And even then, I'm usually whimpering in pain with tears in my eyes by the time they're done.

Since some of the surgical incisions still have some drainage, the bandages always stick in some spots and have to be soaked loose with a saline solution. The nurses have to examine each wound and each surgical incision for infection which is excruciatingly painful for me since the injures are still so sensitive and tender. After a dressing change, Hutch often sings to me until I fall asleep. Sometimes, he just holds my hand. I need that physical contact desperately.

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They finally took the respirator tube out of my throat today. Although I'm grateful to finally have it gone, it's not an experience I want to go through again any time soon. The doctor came in and told me to cough and then he pulled out the tube. It hurts and you feel like you're going to start gagging and throw up all over everything and everybody. After it's finally out, it seems to take your brain a couple of minutes to remember how to tell your lungs to breathe. That's scary because for a few seconds you feel like you're suffocating until your brain finally kick starts your lungs. The tube also leaves your throat raw and sore, sometimes it even bleeds temporarily. You can't talk and you can't swallow for days. They let Hutch stay in the room with me when they removed it and I squeezed his hand so tightly that I left bruises.

He didn't say anything but I could see it in his eyes. He felt my pain as acutely as I did. I couldn't talk, even though I wanted to, so I just gave him a feeble smile (that was the best I could manage) and silently mouthed his name. I wish you could have seen Hutch's face when I did that. He looked like he'd just won the lottery. That made coming back from the dead worthwhile. I guess he was scared that my brain might be as scrambled up as my body.

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I had so many different doctors, I couldn't keep track of them all and was always forgetting their names. I had a doctor who monitored my lungs, one who kept an eye on my heart, the surgeon who operated on me who liked to admire his handiwork, a doctor who watched for and treated my various infections, one who monitored my digestive problems, and a doctor who treated the nerve and muscle damage in my chest and left shoulder. Keeping them all straight was enough to make my head spin and then there was the physical therapists, the nurse's aides, the dietician and the hospital shrink. It seemed like they all wanted a piece of me and I didn't have anything left to spare.

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I thought a lot about Pop after I was shot. He was only two years older then me when he was shot and killed. I often wonder what my life would have been like if he had lived. From my own experience, I know that he probably didn't feel any pain at the end. I know I didn't feel anything at first…that came later. When they told me that I died briefly, my one regret was that I didn't see Pop waiting for me.

Getting shot hurts. It hurts like hell and anybody who tries to tell you that it doesn't is flat out lying. When you first get hit, you don't feel much because your body goes numb and shock sets in pretty fast. But after a few minutes, you start to feel it. It feels like someone shoved a red hot poker in your flesh and left it there. You start to get light headed and cold, not to mention sick to your stomach. If you're lucky, you won't puke all over yourself.

I thought a lot about Maw too. I can only imagine how she must have felt when she heard that I had been shot just like Pop. It had to bring back painful memories of the day that she lost Pop. I know that she lived in fear of losing me the same way she did Pop every since the day I pinned on a badge. I can only thank God that she didn't but it was way too close this time.

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I hate having a catheter stuck up my dick. They hurt! My dick feels like its on fire most of the time and I always get an infection from the damned thing. It was almost a month after the shooting before the doctors finally decided I could do without it. The first time I had to take a piss was definitely no picnic. Hutch had to hold the urinal for me and position my dick for me so I wouldn't piss all over the bed and myself. Luckily, he's taken care of me enough in the past when I was sick or hurt that neither one of us was embarrassed when he had to help me with something so intimate. We've learned to laugh off stuff like that over the years.

My plumbing was still messed up and I felt like my bladder was going to burst. After a lot of straining and a few choice words in English, Spanish, Yiddish and Vietnamese, I finally managed to squeeze out enough piss to satisfy the doctors so they wouldn't put the catheter back in.

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Even worse than the catheter was the colostomy bag taped to my lower abdomen. I had to wear it until the injury to my bowel healed. Even after it was finally removed, I still had to take medications to keep my stools soft so I wouldn't have to strain to have a bowel movement. The problem was sometimes the meds made the stools too soft and I had couple of embarrassing accidents. The urge would come on too quickly for me to warn anybody that I needed to use the bed pan. That was both embarrassing and humiliating. Hutch and the nurses pretended not to notice as they cleaned me up.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

Six days after coming out of the coma, the doctors decided I was strong enough to start doing some simple range of motion exercises on my arms and legs. The idea was to keep the joints flexible and to keep my muscles from contracting. I still had relatively little feeling on my left side due to the nerve and muscle damage to my shoulder and chest. The swelling of my spinal cord caused by one of the bullets passing so close to my spine had started to subside and the doctors felt that the danger of paralysis had passed. That was a vast relief. The thought of not being able to walk again was just one more fear I had successfully suppressed and hidden from Hutch.

The first time the therapist came in and did the range of motion exercises, my muscles felt like tightened rubber bands and my joints seemed determined not to be moved. I bit my lip to hold back a cry as she manipulated the joints until they moved more freely. If this mild exercise hurt so much, what was it going to feel like when I started physical therapy for real? It was not a pleasant thought. I tried not to make too much of a fuss since Hutch was standing in the corner watching every move the therapist made like a watch dog just looking for a reason to attack.

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Hutch insisted on doing most of my personal care himself. He knew how much I hated having some nurses aide who was barely over 18 doing it. But, no matter how close you are to someone, it can still be uncomfortable having them give you a bath or brushing your teeth. Don't get me wrong, Hutch had done things like that for me in the past but this was the first time I had needed total care. You have to laugh it off when your best friend is wiping your ass or washing your cock. It's the only way you get through it without being too embarrassed. Although Hutch knew I would have gladly have done the same thing for him if our roles were reversed. I guess it's a good thing that my sense of humor is still intact, even if my voice is barely above a whisper and sounds like a rusty door hinge.

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My fine motor skills were virtually non-existent, especially on my left side. I couldn't use my hand on that side and my arm just hung there like a piece of meat. That can be a real problem when you're a lefty like me. The worst part was that the doctors couldn't guarantee that the damage wouldn't be permanent. They told me that there was a strong possibility that I may never regain full use of that hand. That would be the end of my career as cop but in my present condition, I knew that I may never be able to work the streets again anyway. That scared me too because all I had ever wanted was to be a cop. It was all I knew how to do and I was good at it.

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Hutch tries to hide it from me, but I can see how much this has hurt him. I can see the terror that lurks in his eyes. There are lines etched around his mouth and eyes that weren't there before, lines I am responsible for. Lines of worry and stress. I'd give anything to be able to take away the fear I see lingering in his face. Hutch watched me die and couldn't do anything about it. That makes for a major guilt trip for Blondie. Hutch can do guilt better than anyone I know. And I know he blames himself for not being to protect me that day and keep me safe. Hell, it wasn't his fault. I was trapped out in the open with no place to go. But try telling Hutch that. He still insists on blaming himself.

I know this whole thing has been harder on Hutch than it was on me. He had to deal with all these emotions and fears while I was in the coma. All I did was lay there, lost in the darkness and blissfully unaware of what was going on around me. Now he looked at me like I was Lazuras risen from the dead of maybe the second coming of Christ. (Sorry, Maw. It's just an expression.)

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Maw came to the hospital after I came out of the coma. I remember opening my eyes and there she was, holding my hand and singing a lullaby that she used to sing when I was little. I guess no matter how old you get, there are times that you still need your mother and, for me, this was one of those times. Maw's touch could soothe me almost as much as Blondie did. It bothered me to see the same pain and fear in her eyes that I saw on Hutch's face. She had survived losing Pop to a gunman's bullets, now I was putting her through the same thing. I felt guilty about that.

The Dobey family had graciously invited her to stay with them while she was in town. I was grateful for that. She could have just as easily have stayed at my apartment or Hutch's since both places were vacant at the moment, but the Captain's wife, Edith, insisted that she stay with them so she wouldn't have to be alone when she wasn't at the hospital with me. Of course, my brother, Nicky, was too busy to be bothered coming with her. I wasn't dead so it wasn't worth his effort to make the trip. That's the way it was between Nicky and me.

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I still seem to spend most of my time sleeping. I can't keep my eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time before I doze off. The doctor says it's because of the medications and because that's nature's way of making sure my body gets the rest it needs to start healing. But it can be a real pain when I lose large blocks of time each day because I'm asleep.

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Sometimes, I can barely catch my breath. My lungs feel like they're stuffed with cotton candy and I can't breathe deeply enough to fill my lungs. My left lung was literally shredded by the bullets and the doctor says it will never be 100 again. For the rest of my life I'll be more susceptible to respiratory infections, especially pneumonia and bronchitis. Something to look forward to.

It's worst at night when I wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. As soon as he hears me, Hutch is right there, massaging the muscles in my chest and telling me to relax while he reminds me how to breathe. Hell, he even breathes with me until I calm down enough to do it myself. There's no way to describe how scary it is not be able to breathe.

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When you're a cop, you learn to control your fear. You have to or you can't do your job. But when you're lying in a hospital bed, unable to do anything for yourself, the fear creeps into your bones where it latches on and never lets go. You have to learn to live with it or it will eventually destroy you one piece at a time.

Sometimes, I just want to curl up into a ball and give up but Hutch won't let me do that. As the drugs begin to work their magic and drag me under, I can hear his voice, that soft, gentle tone he always uses with me when I'm hurting and in pain. That voice always seems to lull me off to sleep. As long as Hutch is there, I know I can let go. He'll watch over me and keep me safe.

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Taking a piss on my own still hurts like hell. The urine burns like fire and my belly cramps up rebelliously, accompanied by sharp, shooting pains in my lower back. It wasn't a pleasant experience but I refused to let Hutch say anything to the doctor. I didn't want them to put that damn catheter back in. I started holding it as long as I could before I would go. But after a couple of embarrassing accidents where I lost control of my bladder, I stopped doing that.

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There's been a police guard on my door every since I was admitted. Once Hutch found out who was behind the shooting, it became even more imperative that I had police protection. Nobody can get into my room without being on a special list of cleared medical personnel and friends. That listed consisted of my doctors and nurses, Captain Dobey and his wife, Edith, Hutch, Huggy Bear and Maw. At this time, I'm not up to seeing anyone else so the list was kept short.

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It didn't seem to take long for my room to start looking like the hospital gift shop. There were flowers, balloons, and a few stuffed animals. Even though I was still in the ICU, the medical staff bent some of the rules for me. Hutch decorated one wall with all the cards from not only my friends and family but from people I didn't even know. Another wall displayed all the artwork by six year old Rosey Dobey.

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It was a major milestone when the doctor finally removed the feeding tube and decided to let me try eating on my own. At first I was restricted to fluids but it still felt good just to be able to taste something again. It was almost two weeks before they finally started letting me have pudding and jello, then gradually building up to more solid foods.

My digestive system was still pretty sluggish and some foods just wouldn't stay down, while others make me severely nauseated. It was a process of elimination as the doctor's figured out what my system could tolerate and what it couldn't. Believe me, it is no picnic to puke when your chest is wired together.

My favorite foods were out of the question. No Tacos, pizzas, or burritos. For the time being, my diet consisted mainly of mashed potatoes, gravy, watery scrambled eggs, puddings, jello, mashed up vegetables, custard, oatmeal and apple juice. Hospital food tends to be bland , tasteless and either overcooked or undercooked. With my limited diet, it was even more noticeable. I keep trying to talk Hutch into sneaking me in a burrito and a beer but he just gives me that look and shakes his head no.

Nothing really appealed to me anyway. My appetite was virtually non-existent. It's hard to feel like eating when you know the food is just as likely to make a repeat appearance shortly. I had lost over thirty pounds since the shooting and it showed in my gaunt appearance.

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My first attempts at feeding myself were pitiful. Unable to use my left hand, I had to learn to use my right hand which was awkward and unnatural to me. I was still weak and could barely lift my arm to reach my mouth. Most of my early attempts ended up with the food decorating me and my bed. I felt even more helpless when Hutch had to feed me just so I could finish my food before it got cold. Sometimes, I would stubbornly clamp my mouth shut, refusing to eat, despite Hutch's gentle coaxing as he tried to get me to open my mouth. When the doctor threatened to put me back on the feeding tube if I didn't start eating better, I relented and let Hutch help me with my meals. I really hate feelings so helpless and dependent on others to do things I used to do with ease.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

I had four additional operations before I was released from the hospital. One was to clear out a stubborn infection in one of my wounds, one was to remove some pieces of bone they missed the first time, one was to do some fine tuning on the original repair work and one was to remove a blood clot. Each surgery was both a success and a setback in my recovery. I was getting stronger but it was taking a while.

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After almost six weeks in the ICU, I was finally transferred to a regular room. It seemed quiet compared tothe constant activity in the ICU ward. On my new floor, there were new nurses to get to know and aides to contend with. With James Gunther safely behind bars and his empire in shambles, the police guard was taken off my door. But I still had Hutch and he was far more protective than any guard. I think a couple of my nurses werescared of him which tickles me since I know that he's really just a big teddy bear underneath. 

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

I was still on some pretty heavy doses of morphine. Every four hours they gave me a shot that left me groggy and sleepy. It only took away the worst of my pain temporarily. The shots would start to wear off after about three hours and the pain would increase until I was counting the minutes until it was time for my next injection. By the time the nurse came in with that liquid relief, I would be trembling and whimpering in pain. Sometimes having Hutch there was the only thing that kept me from screaming out loud. 

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Hutch still treats me like I'm a piece of fine china, fragile and breakable. To tell the truth, that's the way I feel myself most of the time. There's a fear deep inside of me that wasn't there before. I'm still in so much pain all the time that I can't remember what it feels like not to hurt. The doctors have warned me that if I ever get shot again, they won't be able to put the pieces back together again. That's a sobering thought that I try not to dwell on. I've been shot a total of 8 times in my life. I guess that's enough for any man. Especially since this last time counts for 5 of those times. 

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Shortly after I was moved into a regular room, the doctor decided I was strong enough to start trying to get me back on my feet. Now, unless you have been laid up, flat on your back, for almost six weeks, you have no idea what a major undertaking that it. IS Your legs feel like wet noodles and won't support your weight. The nurses had been letting me set up in bed but actually sitting up on the edge of the bed and then getting on your feet is enough to make you feel like you're going to pass out. With a large, well built orderly on one side and Hutch on the other, I finally got out of bed for the first time. And would have promptly fallen flat on my face if Hutch didn't have one arm securely around my waist. That first time I only took a few wobbly, shuffling steps. I felt like a 90 year old man trying to run a marathon. I was drenched with sweat, every muscle in my body trembling, when they got me back into bed. My heart was pounding frantically and I was breathing heavily like I was having an asthma attack. All I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and stay there.

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Hutch keeps saying he wishes it had been him instead of me that got shot. I don't. I thank God that it was me instead of him. I would have lost it completely if our roles had been reversed. I could never have watched him suffering the way I am. That alone would have been enough to kill me. I would never tell Hutch this but I think I can deal with pain better than he can. That's not to say that Hutch is some kind of pussy because he isn't. Hell, he walked out of the hospital once with a gunshot wound to his chest just to find me because I was in trouble. I just think that I have a higher tolerance for pain than Hutch does. I might whine and carry on when I get a paper cut or a cold, but when it comes to the big stuff, I keep my pain to myself. I've always been that way. Of course, Hutch knows me well enough to know when I'm in pain even when I try to hide it from him.

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I had a couple of close calls after I got out of the ICU. One night shortly after the nurse gave me my bedtime meds, I broke out in a cold sweat and my heart started pounding like it was trying to bust out of my chest. My throat felt like it was closing up and I couldn't talk, hell, I could barely breathe. Before I passed out, I heard Hutch screaming for a nurse. When I woke up two days later, Hutch told me that I had had a severe allergic reaction to a new med the doctor had put me on for an infection in my lungs. Luckily, Hutch had been there when it happened or I could easily have died. I'm just glad Maw wasn't there when it happened. I had already put her through enough.

I also ended up with pneumonia and had to be put back on the respirator. I hated having that damn tube shoved down my throat so the respirator could force air into my lungs. Then I got a blood clot in my lung and had to have more surgery to remove it. That sucked. Another setback that I couldn't afford. 

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As my condition improved, more therapy was added to my daily routine besides the range of motion exercises. The therapy was still relatively mild compared to what would come later but was still painful. I thought my first therapist was some kind of sadist, stretching muscles that had frozen in place and rotating joints that didn't want to be moved. That first session only lasted a little over half an hour but by the time it was finished, I was in agony and desperately needed something for the pain. Hutch finally yelled at the therapist to make her stop and insisted on taking me back to my room. That was the last time I had to see that particular therapist.

The next therapist I saw slowed things down a bit but the sessions were still quite painful and physically draining. There was simply no way to avoid that. After each session, Hutch would take me back to my room and massage my sore, aching muscles and then have the nurse give me a shot so I could sleep for a couple of hours. 

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The first time I had to get on the parallel bars, I almost fell on my face. All I could do was stand there and no amount of coaxing by Hutch or the therapist could get me to move. Finally, I did manage two stumbling steps before giving up. It was just too much, too soon. I didn't attempt the parallel bars again until weeks later after I was out of the hospital and back at home.

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My days had fallen into a dull, monotonous routine. Routine tests to monitor my condition, rounds by the various doctors, vital signs and injections, naps and therapy. I've always hated to watch daytime TV. Soap Operas and game shows have never interested me. Since I couldn't read without getting a headache, Hutch often read to me in the afternoons. Most of the time it was the newspaper but sometimes it was a book that he thought I would enjoy. Hutch has a wide range of interests, he likes adventure stories, documentaries, biography's, and novels. He was always teasing me because I liked trivia books and books of odd facts. I bet it would shock the hell out of him if he knew that I've read Shakespeare because I enjoyed it and not because I had to. 

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I know I must be getting better because all I want to do it get out of here and go home. But the doctor says that isn't about to happen for a while. He won't tell me how long. I'm just so tired of being poked and prodded and stuck with needles. I want out of here! 


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: RL still causing problems but hopefully will be back on line on a regular basis very soon. Hope you continue to ejoy the story**

**CHAPTER 5**

I've finally reached the point where I can sit up in bed or in a recliner. I still have to have help to get out of bed but it's progress. I can even manage to walk the fifteen steps to the bathroom and then back to my bed as long as Hutch is there to help me. That may not seem like much of an accomplishment to some people but to me it is. I'm still weak and need a lot of help but I am starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel. I just might make it after all.

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Besides the physical therapy to regain my strength and to regain both my mobility and muscle tone, I also have to have respiratory therapy to help build up the strength in my injured lung. That really sucks. There's this tube thing with a little ball in a glass globe and I have to blow in it until the ball rises in the air. Then I have to try and keep the ball in the air as long as I can. I have to do that three times a day. And Hutch is there to make sure I do exactly what the doctor orders. I can't get away with anything with Blondie around. Even when I whine and try to get out of it by saying I'm too tired or sick, Hutch always knows when that's true and when I'm faking. He'll just give me that look and point the 'Hutchinson' finger at me. That's his way of telling me to behave and follow the doctor's orders.

The first time the therapist made me blow into the tube I couldn't move the ball at all no matter how hard I tried. The effort left me gasping for breath and fighting to control the burning pain in my chest. But now, I can get that little sucker in the air and hold it there for almost a minute. That's not good enough for my therapist, she says the eventual goal is for me to be able to keep it in the air for three minutes. Who does she think I am? Superman or something?

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My physical therapy sessions are still more like torture sessions. I was driven to tears as muscles that didn't want to be stretched were stretched to their limit and then just a little bit further. I left each session drenched with sweat and hurting so bad I just wanted to curl up and die. Hutch was always there to massage away the worst of the pain. He sat in on each session and, believe me, he didn't hesitate to tell the therapist when he thought I'd had enough for one day. They butted heads a few times until the therapist realized that Hutch had my best interests at heart and knew my limitations far better than she did.

More than once, I wanted to give up, to just curl up on my bed and tell everybody to get fucked and just leave me alone. It hurt that bad. Hutch always knew when I was at the very edge of my endurance and ready to fall apart. I forced myself to go on, not just for myself but for Hutch too. He had invested as much time, sweat and tears in my recovery as I had. I couldn't let him down now.

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You have a lot of time to think when you're in the hospital as long as I was. You think about your life, about the mistakes you've made, about the things you should have done differently. The good and the bad. Bittersweet memories that have defined your life and made you who you are. I have more than my share of regrets and enough bad memories t o last me a lifetime.

The majority of my memories include Hutch, memories that span over half my lifetime. I can't imagine my life with him in it and I know that he feels the same way. The shooting only helped to reinforce my need for Hutch, my dependency on him when things get bad. Our motto has always been _'Who do we trust? Me and Thee.' _And I know that I need him now more than I ever have before and he needs to be here with me just as much.

Over the years people have tried to define our relationship, even label it as something it isn't. To some people, we're too close and I suppose in some ways we are. But, not the way some people would have you believe. It's as if we're two halves of the same whole, in two separate bodies, held together by a bond that goes deeper than friendship, deeper than love, bound together at very core of our being.

I've had other friendships over the years, some I even considered close, but nothing like what I have with Hutch. I can't even define it myself most of the time. It just is. He's a part of me and I'm a part of him. We do everything better when we're together than we do when we're apart. When I hurt, he hurts. It's as simple and as complicated as that.

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My doctors seem pleased with my progress but they still can't say how soon I will be able to go home. It seems like I have already been here forever. I'm not sure where I will end up going when I do get out of here. The doctor says I won't be able to climb steps or drive and will still need twenty-four hour care for some time after I go home. I guess they're afraid that once I'm out of their sight, I'll do something stupid to screw up all their fancy repair work. The hospital social worker came in today and talked to me about going to a rehabilitation center when I get out of here, at least until I get strong enough to care for myself. Blondie shot that idea down in one hell of a hurry. I had to chuckle at the expression on the social worker's face when Hutch informed her that nobody was going to take care of me after I went home but him. That made me feel good knowing that Hutch wanted to do that for me. The truth is, I wouldn't have been as comfortable with anyone else as I am with him. I sure didn't want some stranger I didn't even know coming in and wiping my ass.

When she told him that was impossible, he went over her head and talked to my doctors. He told them he would do whatever they said he had to do, learn whatever they said he needed to learn, to be able to qualify as my personal caregiver. After some debate back and forth, they finally agreed to consider the idea.

The next thing I knew, Hutch was working with my nurses and therapists to learn different techniques and procedures to care for me on his own twenty-four hours a day.

He had to show them that he knew how to bathe me and provide my personal care (which really embarrassed me but didn't seem to phase Hutch in the least) I'm not overly modest but I don't want an audience when I'm being bathed or using the bathroom. He also had to learn how to monitor my numerous medications and give them to me, then chart that I had taken them properly and on time. They showed him how to watch my wounds for any signs of infection, how to monitor my diet, how to take and chart my vital signs, and a hundred other little details that go into providing someone with total care. I guess Blondie's two years of med school really paid off when it came to showing the doctors that he could take care of me adequately.

The hardest part for both of us was when they showed him how to change my bandages and take care of my healing wounds. I always kept my eyes closed, I didn't want to see what I looked like. But, Hutch didn't have that option. He had always been asked to leave the room before when my bandages were being changed, so he had never actually seen the extent of my injuries before. The first time he sat in on a dressing change, I heard his sharp intake of breath, that more than anything told me how bad it must look. Afterwards, he looked badly shaken and a little green around the gills but he refused to talk about it. All and all, that made me pretty sure I didn't want to see what my chest looked like anytime soon.

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Maw was planning to stay for at least a month after I got out of the hospital to help Hutch out so at least he wouldn't have to do it all on his own. Nicky wasn't too happy about that but Maw had her mind made up and nobody was going to change it. But, there were still some things that I wasn't about to let Maw do for me. It's one thing for your mother to do certain things when you're a kid but you just don't want her doing those things for you when you're an adult. I had a feeling it was going to be comical to watch Hutch and Maw fighting over who was going to do what when I got home.

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Hutch, Huggy Bear and Captain Dobey surprised me tonight with an impromptu feast in my hospital room, complete with stuffed veal, a veggie and cheese platter, and a bottle of wine. It was completely against hospital regulations but none of us gave a damn. Of course, alcohol and rich food weren't part of my approved diet but it tasted so good, I couldn't resist. It had been so long since I'd had any 'real' food. Our little private party came to a jarring halt when Huggy accidentally hung a lantern on the overhead fire sprinkler. The next thing I knew, we were all getting drenched and an alarm was blaring loudly. Within minutes, my room was filled with several very angry nurses who shooed everybody out and ordered them not to come back until morning, including Hutch who'd had too much to drink and wasn't feeling any pain. After everything I had put in through since the shooting, he needed to let his hair down a little.

They quickly got me into dry clothes and moved to another room. I spent the rest of the night vomiting and regretting my impulsive actions. Still, it had been worth it to feel half way normal again. The next day, I had to listen to a lecture from my doctors about the foolishness of what I had done and how I could have jeopardized my recovery. Lucky for me, I knew how to tune them out when I had to. Then I had to deal with a very hung over Hutch who immediately went on a major guilt trip when he found out how sick the food and alcohol had made me after he was banished from my room. Still, that is one of my favorite memories of all those weeks in the hospital.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

I can't believe it! I'm finally getting out of here. After almost eight weeks, I'm going home. There were times I was sure this day would never come. I'm not actually going back to my place. Since I'm not allowed to climb any steps for now, Hutch found a couple of guys at work to sub-let my apartment and his. Then he found a cottage to rent right on the beach. He figured it would be a nice, quiet location where I could recovery in peace without a lot of noise and distractions. I think he picked it because of his own fondness for the beach. At least he didn't decide to rent a cabin in the woods!

He told me it has three bedrooms, a deck in the back, and a terrific view of the ocean. The owner's wife had been in a wheelchair so it was also specially modified for someone who was handicapped with hand rails in the bathroom, a specially designed shower stall, wide doorways and an open floor plan. It sounded great!

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To be honest, as strange as it may sound, as thrilled as I was about finally getting sprung from the hospital, there was a part of me that was scared to death to leave. I mean, I had been through so much shit. There had been a few times when I wouldn't have made it if it hadn't been for the medical personnel being right there to spring into action. Once I left the protected environment of the hospital, I wouldn't have that safety net any longer. I knew that the cottage was only minutes away from the hospital but it was still a scary thought. Still, I want out of here so I'm just hoping for the best.

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The cottage is everything Hutch promised it would be. There's a separate bedroom for me, Hutch and Maw. My bedroom still looks more like a hospital room. Hutch rented a hospital bed with a trapeze bar so I can move myself around if I have to and there's a stand with all the stuff Hutch needs to do my dressing changes, along with the charts he has to fill out with all my vital signs and stuff. Still, it's better than the cold, sterile hospital. At least here, I can look at the window and actually see something besides the parking lot.

The rest of the house is just as nice. The rooms are large and airy. The living room and kitchen are combined, separated only by a breakfast bar and there's a big fireplace in the living room. I could just imagine a roaring fire and roasted marshmallows. Sliding glass doors open onto the back deck with a magnificent view of the ocean.

Hutch has two big calendars, one in my bedroom and one in the kitchen, where he writes down all my various doctor's appointments and therapy sessions. My life for the next few weeks is going to be nothing but one appointment after another.

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It was funny to watch Hutch and Maw arguing over who was going to cook for me. Now, they're both excellent cooks but they have vastly different ideas about what to feed me. Maw wants to stuff me with 'comfort foods', all the favorite foods I had grown up eating as a kid, while Hutch wanted to fix me his idea of 'healthy' foods that were good for me. I finally got them to compromise. Hutch got to cook breakfast and lunch, while Maw fixed supper for all of us.

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Despite the tempting dishes that they both prepared, my appetite was still picky at best, when I had any appetite at all. Some days all I could keep down was one of Hutch's milk shakes or ice cream. Too tell the truth, Hutch's smoothies and milk shakes aren't half bad but I'd never tell him that. If I didn't complain about not being able to have a burrito or a slice of pizza, Hutch would have thought something was wrong.

Sometimes I could eat something one day but it would come right back up the next day. There was no consistency when it came to what I could eat and what I couldn't eat. It became a game of trial and error to see what foods I could tolerate and what I couldn't. Anything spicy or highly seasoned was out of the question for some time to come. Naturally, that included most of my favorite foods, so of course, those where the foods I seemed to crave the most. The doctor said it could be months before my digestive system was completely healed and even then, there might always be certain foods I wouldn't be able to eat again. Believe me, no matter how good something tastes going down, it tastes like shit when it comes back up.

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You've all heard the stories about Jewish mothers, right? Well, now I've got two. Hutch would have made a terrific Jewish mother at least where I'm concerned. I call him a 'mother hen' when he fusses over me as much as Maw does. They both act like I'm gonna break if they aren't careful. Sometimes, between the two of them, it can get overwhelming.

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The kitchen counter looks like a miniature pharmacy with all my pill bottles neatly lined up in a row. It seemed like I had to take a pill for just a about everything. There were pills to regulate my blood pressure, pills to keep me from retaining water, pills to keep my stools soft, pills for my nausea and vomiting, pills that were supposed to improve my appetite, pills to deal with the side effects from some of the other meds, pills to aide my digestion, 2 different types of pain pills, sleeping pills, anti-depressants, and the pills I had to take for the migraines that I had suffered from periodically since my tour in Viet Nam. They had returned with a vengeance after the shooting. I was also taking antibiotics for a persistent respiratory infection and had inhalers to help when I had trouble breathing. And, of course, Hutch decided I need to take a daily multi-vitamin with iron. Some of the pills I had to take every four hours, others I just took at bedtime or in the mornings. It was an effort to keep track of them. I don't know how Hutch managed to do it. Knowing Blondie, he probably carried a detailed list around with him.

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I was still on morphine, mainly at night when the pain got really bad. It would send me floating off into a blissful pain free world where nothing mattered, at least for a couple of hours. Sometimes, at night, the pain in my chest felt like a steel band getting tighter and tighter until I could barely breathe. Those were the nights when Hutch would leave his room and crawl into my bed, gently massaging my cramped muscles, then holding me close until I feel asleep. I still needed that physical contact with my partner to feel safe when my own demons reared their ugly heads.

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Physical therapy was still a torture I could have done without but it was a necessary evil that I had to endure if I ever wanted to function normally again. I still had limited use of my left arm and that was a major concern since that's my dominant side. So a lot of my therapy sessions centered on working with that hand and arm. I had a session three times a week for almost a year after the shooting before I finally regained full use of that hand.

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Three weeks after being released from the hospital, I locked myself in the bathroom and carefully removed the bandages from my chest. Slowly, I raised my head and took my first look in a mirror in over two months. I was shocked by appearance. Now I knew why everybody looked at me the way they did. I looked like death warmed over. My skin was pale and drawn tightly over my cheekbones with vivid dark circles under my eyes. I looked like the pictures I'd seen of holocaust survivors and that was just my face. I didn't want to know what the rest of my body looked like.

It took every bit of will power that I possessed to force myself to lower my eyes and look at my chest for the first time. I caught my breath sharply, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I stared at the vivid scars on my body for the first time. With most my chest hair shaved, the scars stood out starkly against my skin. My chest and stomach looked like something out of those old horror movies I loved to watch.

One scar ran from the hollow of my throat down to my navel, a thick raised area of tissue that was still a vivid red. Tiny dots on either side of the incision clearly showed where the wound had been stapled shut so that it could heal. A second scar ran across my chest from nipple to nipple, while a third scar ran in a horizontal line across my lower abdomen just above my pubic hair. There were two puckered scars, clearly entrance wounds from the bullets. One was just below my left nipple and one on the lower right side of my abdomen. The other three bullets had entered through my back and had remained in my body until they were removed by the surgeons. Those were the ones that had done the most damage.

I knew that in time, the scars would fade and not be as vivid. Once my chest hair grew back in, it would help camouflage the scars so they weren't quite as noticeable. But I would still know they were there. That first image of my scarred chest would be forever branded in my mind. An ugly, permanent reminder of my brush with death. In my mind, the scars would always be as ugly as they were right now. I've never been a vain man, but with my chest looking like it did, I knew that my days as ladies man were over.

I must have made some kind of sound because the next thing I knew, Hutch was pounding on the door, demanding that I let him in. When I opened the door, he took one look at my bared chest and immediately pulled me into his arms. I just leaned my head against his shoulder and began to bawl like a baby.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

Since the shooting, I've developed a real phobia about hospitals. I'll fight anyone who tries to make me go to one. Even when I have no choice, I still won't let them admit me unless I'm too out of it to know what's going on. Even Hutch can't get me to go voluntarily. One time, he actually had to handcuff me to the door handle in the car so I wouldn't jump out before we got there. I just can't help it, the memories of the shooting left more scars then just the ones you can see on my body. 

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I'm not ashamed to admit that I suffered from severe depression for months after the shooting. Hell, who wouldn't have?The doctor prescribed medication that was supposed to help but it didn't. Maybe because I refused to take it most of the time unless Hutch slips me one without me noticing it. He got good at doing that with some of my meds.

As I got stronger, I also got more stubborn and started resisting the constant 'mothering' I couldn't help it. I was so sick and tired of being sick and in so much pain all the time. I felt guilty because I took my frustration and anger out on Hutch, the one safe target for me to vent my emotions on. I knew this was as hard on him as it was on me.

Some days, my whole world seemed black and hopeless. The only saving grace was Hutch's unwavering support and encouragement. Hutch used to sing to me a lot, both in the hospital and at home. I always loved to listen to him. I think he hasa terrific voice but he seldom sings for anybody but me. He has a terrible case of stage fright when he gets in front of an audience. Sometimes, his singing was the only thing that seemed to keep me sane.

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I've never had much use for shrinks. I don't want anybody messing around in my head and trying to analyze me. When police officers are hurt in the line of duty, especially if they are shot up the way I was, they have to see the police shrink before they can be cleared to return to work. I've seen more than my share over the years, so I'm pretty good at playing the game and telling them what they want to hear or just ignoring them completely. 

After the shooting, because of the special circumstances involved, I was assigned to a private therapist instead of the regular department psychiatrist. I was sent to a doctor who specialized in treating both victims of violent crimes and post traumatic stress victims. He didn't try to get inside my head, he just let me talk about whatever I felt like talking about. If I didn't feel like talking, then I didn't talk. 

In the beginning, we talked about everything except what had happened to me. After a while, I started to trust him and open up more about the shooting and how I felt about it. I came to consider him a friend and not just another one of my doctors. He really helped and my depression began to lift.

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At first it was strange sharing a house with Hutch. Sure, we spent the majority of our time together before the shooting, even spending the night on each other's couch half the time, but actually living together twenty-four hours a day is a completely different thing. Hutch tends to be a bit of slob, while I'm more of a neat freak. Blame that on Maw, my Aunt Rosie and a stint in the Army. Keeping things neat and orderly is just second nature to me. But after a couple of weeks, we settled into an acceptable routine. 

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I'd been in so much pain for so long that, at first, I didn't notice when I started being able to do things easier without so much discomfort. The first time I realized I was actually getting better was the night I was able to roll over in bed by myself with feeling like my chest was ripping open. I was so excited, I started yelling for Hutch. I scared him half to death, he must have thought I was dying or something. I had to laugh at the expression on his face when he came storming through my bedroom door. But, once he found out I was okay, he was excited as I was that I could actually do something without so much pain. It was definite improvement. 

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I was bored out of my mind. Daytime TV will rot your brain. The highlight of my day was checking the mail. I missed the job, I missed driving my car, I missed being out there on the streets with Hutch busting the bad guys. Hell, I even missed Captain Dobey yelling at me. But all I could do was sit on the couch and wait for my next round of pills so I could drift off to la la land for a while. Finally, Hutch talked to my therapist and the doctors and they agreed that he could start taking me out of the house for a short time each day, to the park, maybe out to eat, or to a movie. Nothing strenuous, just something to get me out of the house and help ease me back into a more normal routine. Once, I even had Hutch take me to Temple. Maw would have been proud.

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Since the shooting, it seems like I'm always cold. I used to be just the opposite. Now seems like I always have to have a cover close by, sometimes more than one. The doctor told me that it was because my system was still healing and that my internal thermostat was still out of wack. But it sucks to be lying on the sofa curled up under a couple of blankets and shivering on a hot California night as you wonder if you'll ever feel warm again.

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With all my various medications, I wasn't allowed any alcohol and there were times when I really missed the taste of an ice cold beer. A couple of times, Hutch relented and pretended not to notice when I stole a sip of his, but not very often. And I usually regretted it. My stomach let me know in no uncertain terms that it had not been a good idea.

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After a few weeks at home, friends from the station began to stop by. It was good to see them but I really resented the pity I imagined I could see in their eyes. I always hated it when I thought that somebody was feeling sorry for me. I knew a lot of them must be thinking _'Poor Starsky, he used to be such a good cop, now look at him'._ I knew some of them thought I was washed up, a has been, that my career as a cop was over. And the truth was, I wasn't so sure myself that it wasn't. I didn't need anyone else feeling sorry for me, I was doing a pretty good job feeling sorry for myself.

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I really really missed my car. The Tornio needed extensive body work to repair the damage done by the bullets that had cut through the metal framework just as easily as they had torn though my body. It also needed new side windows on the driver's side and a new rear windshield. The upholstery in the front seat had also been damaged by broken glass and had to be replaced. 

All my friends had taken up a collection to help pay for the repairs and Hutch was footing the bill for what the collection didn't cover. Even Merle was helping out by not charging Hutch anything for labor, just the replacement parts. 

So I had to rely on Hutch or Huggy Bear to take me to my various appointments and pick me up. But I still missed not being able to drive myself. You don't realize how much independence a car gives you until you have to do without one. 

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The first time I tried shaving by myself was a major accomplishment as far as I was concerned. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and wondered if I could do this without cutting my own throat. I lathered up my face and carefully drew the razor down my cheek. So far, so good. Half an hour later, I finished a task that normally would have only taken me ten minutes. I had my fair share of nicks but nothing major. I felt proud of myself for being able to do one more thing for myself that most men took for granted.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

It took almost 4 months after the shooting before I was able to pretty much get around by myself again. Hutch had taken a leave of absence from work (without pay) to help take care of me and get me back on my feet. I knew he had some kind of trust fung that his grandfather had left him, so assumed that he was living off of that. He'd mentioned it to me once. He never told me how much was in it but I got the feeling it was quite a bit. I knew that his family had money. I was getting a disability check from the department which amounted to about 75 of my base pay.

After a couple of months at home, and a lot of fast talking on my part, I finally convinced Hutch to go back to work part-time. He worked it out with the Captain where he worked a regular shift on Monday, Tuesdays and Wednesdays and was on call for emergencies on the weekends. It was time for us both to start working our way back to a normal life.s

The first day that I was home by myself, I swear to God, Hutch must have called me every half hour to make sure I was okay and that I had taken my pills. He also arranged for Huggy Bear to stop by around noon to fix my lunch and Edith Dobey stopped by in the afternoons to check on me. I couldn't complain. To tell the truth, I was nervous staying by myself even though I relished the first real privacy I'd had in months. Since the shooting, it seemed like there had been someone with me constantly and I never had any time just to be alone. The quiet was almost overwhelming. I turned on the TV just for some background noise. Still, this was a major step towards regaining my independence.

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It's hard for Hutch to step back and let me do things on my own. I can see the fear in his eyes whenever he does. The shooting has affected him just as badly as it did me, you just can't see his scars as easily as you can mine. But, it was time for me to start taking control of my life again. The first time I took a shower on my own, Hutch stood right outside the door to make sure I didn't fall and break my neck or pass out in the tub and drown. His concern was both endearing and frustrating as hell. But, that's my Hutch, my own personal mother hen and Jewish mother rolled into one big blond.

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I did have to change my eating habits because of the damage to my digestive system system. Needless to say, that pleased Hutch immensely since my dietary habits had driven him crazy for years. Now, I have to eat healthier foods and in moderation. I still eat three small meals a day, plus a snack in the morning and one in the evening. My days of eating tacos, loaded pizzas, burritos and spicy foods with hot sauce are over. That doesn't mean I don't indulge myself every now and then but not that often. I still miss a good burrito loaded with hot peppers, onions, and hot sauce.

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Regular workouts in the gym and exercise are part of my daily routine now. I can jog 4 miles a day with Hutch without getting winded. I also listen to my body when it tells me it's time to take a break or go home and get some sleep. My days of working 14 or 16 hours a day are a thing of the past. I went through hell to get back to where I am today and Hutch was with me every step of the way. I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize all the hard work, blood, sweat and tears that went into my recovery. I'm in better shape now, physically, than I was when I was in my twenties.

Helping me get back into shape had helped Hutch too. He's lost those extra pounds he put on in the past few years and started eating healthy foods again. He's also jogging and working out with me now and he looks great. I even talked him into getting a hair cut and shaving off that damn mustache. I hated that thing!

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I did have some lingering side effects from the shooting. The one that bothered me the most was that I was temporarily impotent. The doctors told me that it was most likely caused by my medications combined with the trauma of the shooting. I wish I could be as sure as he was that this condition was only temporary. Before the shooting, I was a healthy adult male in the prime of his life who was used to getting laid 3 or 4 nights a week. Everything just sort of hung there and didn't show any interest in doing anything else. Sometimes, I would lock myself in my bedroom and touch myself, praying for some kind of response, anything. Maybe it's a guy thing but I sure wasn't ready to spend the next 40 or 50 years of my life in forced celibacy and having wet dreams about the way it used to be.

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I'm really kind of ashamed to tell you this but the first woman I had sex with after the shooting wasn't a new girlfriend, or even an old one, but she was still a friend. Her name was Sweet Alice and she was a prostitute/informant who had a major crush on Blondie. It wasn't anything that was planned, it just sort of happened. Alice was just as sweet as her nickname implied and she was easy to talk to. I ran into her one night at The Pits. I was feeling sorry for myself and we got to talking about my recovery from the shooting. When I told her how self conscious I was about the scars and how I couldn't get it up since the shooting, she graciously offered to help me with my 'problem'.

Now don't go getting the wrong idea, any other time I would have politely turned her down but it had been so long since I'd held a woman in my arms that I needed to know if I could still function as a man. And Alice was a professional, so maybe she had a few tricks up her sleeve that could help.

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After being with Alice, I felt ashamed of myself. I because I was guilty of using her as if I'd been just another one of her tricks. She just smiled at me and told me that I had nothing to feel guilty or ashamed of. She had done it because she cared about me not because she felt sorry for me. I'm not sure I believed her entirely but I will be forever grateful to her for proving that I could still function as a man. And she seemed to enjoy it as much as I did. I don't think she was faking it and I worked extra hard to make sure she got as much pleasure out of it as I did.

I've never told Hutch about my little romp with Alice. Some things are just meant to remain private. Personally, I think Hutch has always had a thing for Alice too and I don't want him thinking any less of her. Everyone needs some illusions to hang on to. It's one of the few secrets I've ever kept for Hutch.

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I was nervous as hell the first time I actually went out on a real date after the shooting. Things were going really good until we went back to her place later in the evening. We were making out on the couch and I was ready to get down to business when she unbuttoned my shirt and saw the scars on my chest. That sure as hell put a stop to the action cold. She didn't say anything, she didn't have to. I could see it all in the look on her face, a combination of pity and horror. It was obvious that to her I was some kind of pathetic freak. I made some excuse and got out of there as fast as I could. I never saw her again and it was a long, long time before I worked up the courage to go out on another date. Nowadays just to be on the safe side, I warn my dates in advance about my scars but it took me a long time to get the confidence to be able to do that.

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Nobody thought I would ever recover enough to be a street cop again and I was determined to prove them wrong. Being a cop was a major part of who I was, it was in my blood. It was part of my identity. Besides that, I didn't trust anyone else to watch Hutch's back out there on the streets but me.

Still, the first time I went to the firing range and held my gun in my hand again, I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. It took me almost three months before my hands were steady enough to even hit the target. It took another two months before I could shoot well enough with both hands to qualify in the satisfactory range for the force, then another two months before I could raise my status from satisfactory to my former standing as expert marksman. After all, I couldn't very well be a cop again unless I was proficient in the use of my firearm. I couldn't cover Hutch's back if I couldn't hit my target dead on if I had to shoot to kill.

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I have a fear that I've kept to myself since the shooting. I haven't told anybody about it, not even Hutch. As much as I want to go back to work, I'm scared to go back on the streets because I'm afraid of being shot again. The doctors have warned me that if I do get shot again, the next time, they won't be able to put the pieces back together again. I know the thought of me getting hurt again on the job scares the hell out of Hutch. That's a pretty scary thought when you work the inner city streets the way Hutch and I do. There are no guarantees when you go out there. But, then I had already learned the hard way that you didn't have to be out there on the streets to get gunned down.

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Fourteen months and six days after being shot down in the police parking garage, I went in front of the police review board to try and re-qualify to go back on the streets. At first the review board refused, they would let me come back to the force but only at a desk job. I told them no way. I had the union and public support on my side. After all, I was a highly decorated officer who had been gunned down at police headquarters, the one place I should have been the safest. Finally, they agreed to reinstate me on a probationary period for 6 months after the union threatened them with a major lawsuit based on my doctor's reports that said I was cleared for active duty.

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It was Captain Dobey that found a way for Hutch and me to still be partners and for me to still be a cop without working the inner city streets. The Police commissioner wanted to start a new squad that would reinvestigate 'cold cases', usually murders that had occurred as long ago as twenty years or more. Murder cases are never officially closed. They are put into a special file and various officers review them one a year looking for new evidence or anything that might have been overlooked originally. The Captain strongly recommended me and Hutch to be in charge of the new unit. It sounds interesting and we are both looking forward to the change and the challenge. We're both getting older. It's time to leave the glory days to the younger officers.

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Hutch and I are closer today than we have ever been. For months, I was dependent on Hutch for my very survival and now I'm not sure I could survive without him. The personal boundaries between us, if there ever were any, had blurred years ago. We're both equally comfortable with the other one invading our personal space. That's just the way it is with us. A lot of people still don't understand our relationship and we've given up trying to explain it to them. It's none of their business anyway.

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Some people hear Hutch putting me down or calling me names and get the wrong idea. But it don't bother me none because I know that's just the way Hutch is. See, Hutch likes to feel superior and in charge, so I let him. I know he doesn't think I'm stupid or dumb just because he went to college and I didn't. He might be smarter than me when it comes to book learning, but I'm the one with the street smarts, so we balance each other out. And it was that arrogant attitude of Hutch, combined with that gentle side that most people never see, that got me through my recovery. Without him, I wouldn't be here.

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So, that's my life as it stands today. There are new lines around my eyes and the corners of my mouth that weren't there before. And there are strands of gray starting to show in my hair. I guess the years and the stress of the job are finally catching up with me. Of course the trauma of getting shot and my long recovery had a lot to do with it.

I'm not the same man I used to be and I never will be. I've accepted that and I'm ready to get on with my life, to embrace the second chance I've been given, and to face whatever future fate holds in store. I know I'll be okay as long as I still have Hutch at my side.

THE END

A/N: Until things are resolved with my current RL issues, It may be a while before I post again.


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